


til i'm sure that you've been shown (that i can be trusted with you)

by x (ordinary)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Broken Bones, Dubious Consent, Hair-pulling, M/M, POV Second Person, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:09:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/pseuds/x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samson is a terrible roommate-friend-fuckbuddy. Cullen just doesn't have the patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	til i'm sure that you've been shown (that i can be trusted with you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barkghest (pokrzyk)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=barkghest+%28pokrzyk%29).



> warnings for abuse, abusive/unhealthy relationships, and dubious consent, although sammy likes it, it can read as non-con. ymmv.

**i.**

It starts like this: the not-so-playful teasing of his has gotten on your last nerve, fraying it down to a splinter. Roommates and partners in crime fit you both, although the reality is closer to two men that straddle the line between frenemies and just plain enemies.

And he has eaten your food, and gone through your things, and done exactly the one thing you’d asked him not to do (insignificant, too, and that’s why he ignored it: all you wanted was for him to keep the liquor on  _his_ side of the room, and) is looking, at you.

Looking at you, with a pair of (your) chopsticks eating the last of (your) takeout, gesturing at you lazily. 

“Listen,” he says, and the coarseness of his voice grates the wrong way against the last dredges of your patience, white half moons digging into your palms, “ _Rutherford_. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Once upon a time, you were a pushover. No more. 

It starts like this.

 

**ii.**

His fist hits you first, but that doesn’t mean a thing. Just because Samson started it doesn’t mean it’s his to finish-- he’s never finished a thing a day in his life. Not school, not a job, not the magazine quizzes pilfered off of Calpurnia’s coffee table. 

(And it’s not his fault, not entirely, a bastion of liberalism in the bible belt’s not so easy to swallow, not so easy to escape a reputation in, not so easy to crawl out of the bottle, let alone the needle.)

His fist hits you and his wrist is so  _thin_  in your grasp, and it’s so easy to remember that you could snap it if you cared to. The widening of his eyes, however slight, proves to you that it’s a fact that you both know. 

Down he goes, back bouncing off the couch and onto the floor, cheeks flush and face smug. Like it’s a game, to him, and maybe it is.

But Samson has never been very good at realistically assessing his own odds.

The pair of you, not so long ago, used to have a coffee table of your own. But one too many fights that were less pretend and more reality put an end to that, splintering beneath his back the last time you threw him on it, biceps bulging. 

 

**iii.**

He licks blood off his teeth, a reedy gasp working its way out of his throat, choked off and pitiful. You don’t know why it’s today, that you’re bent out of sorts in ten different ways. Maybe you’re tired, or maybe just tired of his shit.

“Is that all you’ve got,” he asks, not enough intonation to be the question he means it to be-- too breathless, too winded, too  _helpless_ \--

You grind your thigh between his legs, it always shut him up before, and it does again now. Reduced to a creature of sensation and little else, selfish and in need of someone to indulge him.

There is no intention in your mind that this is you. 

Instead, you hiss a  _shut up_  with more venom that fondness, and wrap your hands into his hair, an inky oil slick that turns him into jelly. Because he can never just  _fuck_  you. It has to be like this: push and pull, with him encroaching on you until your backed up to the ledge of your temper’s cliff.

He’s not prepared, not really, for the fury that awaits once you fall.

You dig your teeth into his proffered neck, drawing blood as narrow hips rut against your thigh, no better than an animal in heat. You tell him as much, slapping him across the face without mercy.

His cock twitches against your thigh as you call him a  _filthy, useless bitch_ , but there’s a look in his eyes that wonders if you mean it.

Of course you do.

 

**iv.**

You fight like you fuck or you fuck like you fight. With Samson, at least, there really isn’t a difference. You want to grind his bones to dust, until he’s nothing and no one and doesn’t remember your name, let alone his own.

With women, you are this but with  _restraint_ , a lion with filed claws and blunted fangs. They might leave you, but he never will. For better or for worse, you’re stuck with him.

He whines, fingers scrabbling into the carpet, trying so-hard to grip it and failing. Every slam of your hips against his ass is brutal, the blunt of your pelvic bone likely to leave bruises (not for the first time, or second, or) against his ass. 

“Cullen,” he says, the start of some aborted begging, too pitiful to be anything but a needy, plaintive whine. 

He’s never been sure if he wants you to stop or go harder, regardless of what you do.

“ _Maker_ , Sammy. Shut  _up_ ,” you hiss, and yank on his hair again, but instead of just pulling back, you double up and slam it back into the ground in time with a pump of your hips, the crack of his skull against the fabric-clad concrete a rough, dull thud. The crunch means you’ve probably busted his nose (again) and it doesn’t stop him from trying so hard to match your every thrust with one of his own.

Laving your tongue along his skin, you want to bite down  _again_. The bruise at the nape of his neck is fading. His sweat is salt and old beer, alcohol exuding out of his pores, and you bury your cock in his ass, all the way to the hilt, as you renew one of many, many claiming marks that litter his body.

You’re not his, of course.

But he’s yours, and he should never forget it.

 

**v.**

Lines of red up and down his back and arms are proof of a job well done, accompanied by bruises and the smear of red around his nose and mouth. He’s shaking, stomach clenching, and even though Samson is sniveling, you  _know_ he came just as hard as you did. Before you, even. 

You stand, leaving him curled on the floor, his body shaking. He looks used, worn out and exhausted and  _done_.

There’s no patience in you, today, for any of your usual kindnesses spared upon him. You pull your clothes back on in stony silence, and there’s nothing but disappointment in your eyes as you kick his clothes back at him.

“Replace what you ate,” you say, simply, even as he turns away to conceal how he can’t walk quite right, red sliding down his face. It makes you grin, easier than you have all day. Something about his face that always needs a punching, and seeing the evidence of an equivalent action written across his face is immensely satisfying.

“Seeya, Sammy.”

**Author's Note:**

> note: moving to my main ao3


End file.
